


Except at Waffle House

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Break Up, Crack, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fist Fights, Food, Hate to Love, Humor, I sincerely hope that becomes an actual tag, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Outsider, Sterek relationship from Braeden's pov, Waffle House, sterek crack fic, this is a crack fic plz don't take it too seriously, this is a sterek story because I demand a happy ending, waffle house au, wedding announcement, yes Derek/Braeden are together for a bit in this story but trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24215650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: As far as boyfriend’s went, Braeden hit the jackpot when she met Derek Hale. Intelligent, well-read, handsome, driven; he’d weathered tragedy and trauma with elegance, emerging on the other side with a soft-spoken grace.  He made Braeden laugh with a wit so dry it kindled a fire in her belly.  To other women, Derek’s obscene good looks—chiseled jawline, soft hair the color of midnight, ass you could bounce quarters off of—might have been his biggest draw, but for Braeden, it was Derek’s hard-won composure.  When she decided to drop out of the Federal Marshall program and pursue her own independent career, Derek never batted an eye.  When she came home from dangerous missions sporting cuts, scrapes, and bruises, he didn’t rage over her playing fast and loose with her own welfare.  He simply said, “I’m glad you’re home safe.”  Derek never yelled, never lost his temper, never fought.  He was a dream come true.Except at Waffle House.
Relationships: Braeden/Derek Hale, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 76
Kudos: 598





	Except at Waffle House

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am jumping on this bandwagon! Inspired by [that amazing Reddit post](https://ruinmyweek.com/reddit/waffle-house-fight-relationships/) about a girl's boyfriend repeatedly fighting the cook at Waffle House. 
> 
> Yes, Breaden and Derek are together in the beginning of this story but [SPOILERS!!!!] they break up because this is a STEREK story and I demand a happy ending. 
> 
> There are no Waffle House Restaurants in California please suspend your disbelief.

As far as boyfriend’s went, Braeden hit the jackpot when she met Derek Hale. She hadn’t been looking for a partner when she’d stepped into the first class of her Master’s program, but there he’d been, sitting dead-center of the third row in the cavernous lecture hall. Derek was… different. Intelligent, well-read, handsome, driven; he’d weathered tragedy and trauma with elegance, emerging on the other side with a soft-spoken grace. He made Braeden laugh with a wit so dry it kindled a fire in her belly. To other women, Derek’s obscene good looks—chiseled jawline, soft hair the color of midnight, ass you could bounce quarters off of—might have been his biggest draw, but for Braeden, it was Derek’s hard-won composure. When she decided to drop out of the Federal Marshall program and pursue her own independent career, Derek never batted an eye. When she came home from dangerous missions sporting cuts, scrapes, and bruises, he didn’t rage over her playing fast and loose with her own welfare. He simply said, “I’m glad you’re home safe.” Derek never yelled, never lost his temper, never fought. He was a dream come true.

Except at Waffle House.

Truth be told, Braeden didn’t love Waffle House, but food was food and a girl’s gotta eat. Derek, however, had some deep-seated appreciation of the greasy chain that stretched back into his childhood, before his parents and older sister died. So while she preferred to eat elsewhere, Braeden found herself at Waffle House a few times a week, feeding Derek’s desire to reconnect with fond adolescent memories.

“Service might be a bit slower today,” said their usual waitress, who’s bright yellow name tag read _Erica_. She plopped an iced-tea in front of Braeden, and a steaming cup of black coffee before Derek. Erica snapped her bubblegum, pulled a tiny notepad from the pocket of her black apron, and snatched a stubby pencil out of her perky blonde ponytail. “Boyd’s training a new cook. What’re y’all having?”

Sure enough Boyd, the owner of the franchise, stood at the grill, patiently pointing at burners and griddles while the long-fingered hands of the tall, thin guy next to him flew around like drunk hummingbirds. Braeden figured the new cook was replacing Scott, who had quit the line to attend Veterinary school. When you spent several days a week eating there, the Waffle House family became your family.

Braeden was known to make her way through the various menu items. Some people had their tried and true staples, but she preferred to throw tradition to the wind. One day it was pecan waffles, the next, chili smothered hash browns. Today, a cheesesteak omelet. Derek, however, was a creature of habit. “I’ll have the--”

“Steak and eggs,” Erica interrupted, graphite scratching over the paper. “Steak medium-rare and egg yolks slightly runny. Whole wheat toast, well done.”

“You got it,” Derek said agreeably, handing over his flimsy laminated menu. “Thanks, Erica.”

They filled the void between placing their order and receiving their food with anecdotes from work and a fast and furious game of hangman on the back of their paper placemats. Waffle House may be lacking in sophistication, but its service was always speedy. 

“Here ya go.” Erica plunked plates in front of them and topped off Derek’s coffee. “Let me know if you need anything else.” But the call bell rang in the kitchen and she bustled away, already half-way down the aisle.

Three forkfuls of cheesy goodness passed her lips before Braeden realized Derek was poking at yellow lumps on his platter with a stiff triangle of toast, watching the yolks crumble like a house of sand. She finished chewing, swallowed. “Derek? Is something wrong?”

“It’s my eggs,” he lamented. “They’re super hard. Not runny at all.”

Had she known the repercussions of her next words, Braeden might have given them more thought. But unbeknownst to her, she was about to score red on the Waffle House Index of how prepared she was to weather the coming shit storm. 

“Just call Erica back,” Breaden suggested, waving her fork in the air. “The kitchen can whip up another batch. No big deal.” 

Famous last words. 

Erica flounced over, ponytail swinging behind her. “Sorry about that, honey,” she chirped. “The new cook is still finding his groove. I’ll be right back with the correct order.”

Derek thanked her again but watched with hazel eagle eyes as she brought the plate back to the open kitchen, speaking to the mole-speckled guy at the grill whose bed head hair was barely contained under his dorky paper hat. Derek squirmed in his seat.

Braeden’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s a really complex call-in system these employees need to learn. And all that crazy code with the jelly and mayo packets? They’re bound to make mistakes sometimes.”

Derek grunted, watching Erica return with a heaping plate of eggs. This time they were scrambled. “These are scrambled,” he said stupidly, blinking at the fluffy little clouds.

Looking down, Erica seemed to see them for the first time. She rolled her eyes and groaned. “Ugh. Stiles.”

“Yeah, it’s a style of eggs, just not the one I ordered.”

“No,” Erica shook her head. “S-T-I-L-E-S. Stiles is our new cook. I promise I’ll be back with the correct eggs in a few.”

But ten minutes later a plate of thinly sliced hard-boiled eggs laid out in a flower pattern was placed in front of Derek. Braeden couldn’t help it, she threw back her head and laughed. “At this point, I think the cook’s fucking with you,” she told him.

But Derek wasn’t in on the joke. He pushed the plate away and threw money down on the table. “Hopefully both his cooking and his comedy routine improves,” Derek grumbled, pulling on his leather jacket.

Maybe now they could finally eat at some different restaurants.

  
  


* * *

Three days later, they were back at Waffle House.

“There are over 1,500 other Waffle Houses in America,” Braeden said for the millionth time, waving her map app in Derek’s face. “Look, there’s one twelve miles away.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Derek scowled, sending his second plate of eggs back to the kitchen. First, they were poached, then they were part of a bacon egg and cheese sandwich.

The third time a single slice of toast sat on a wide white plate, a perfect circle cut from the center. Inside the circle was an egg. Cooked over-hard. 

Braeden took a fortifying breath of humid maple-scented air.

“Okay I’ve had enough,” Derek yelled, standing up from the booth. “You,” he pointed at Stiles the cook, who stared back with a wide insolent mouth and tricky amber eyes. “Take this garbage back and cook my eggs the right way.” 

Stiles slowly pulled a dirty apron over his neck, dislodging his ridiculous hat, and sauntered around the counter on long legs to stand in front of Derek, crowding into his personal space. Toe to toe, there was barely any difference in height between the two men, though their body types varied greatly. Derek was built like a brick shithouse, Stiles like a twink. 

“Is there a problem, dude?” Stiles asked coolly, with the poker face of an Easter Island head. The only crack in his stone facade was the tiny quirk at the edge of his pert lips. 

“Yeah,” Derek growled, pushing a finger into Stiles’ thin chest, “my problem is you and your shitty egg cooking skills.”

“Shitty?” The quirk blossomed into a fully grown smirk. “I’ve made you several plates of superb eggs, dude. It’s not my fault you won’t even try them.”

“Quit calling me dude.”

“Sure thing, buddy.” Stiles winked and stared Derek down like a cowboy in a duel with nothing left to live for. Where had Boyd found this sadist cook?

“My name is _Derek_ . Not buddy. Not dude. _Derek_.” The words leaked out between Derek’s clenched teeth. Braeden could slice American cheese off his jaw right now.

Stiles smiled like he’d won the lottery, angeling his body slightly away from Derek, but never breaking eye contact. “Hey Waffle House, Derek here thinks my eggs suck. Do all of you fine, upstanding people think my eggs are good?” Stiles got several thumbs-up, two enthusiastic whistles, and one wrinkled middle finger from a white-haired man hunched over at the service counter. Stiles gave the guy a thumbs up. “Thanks for your honesty mister. It’s much appreciated.”

“What the hell was that? What are you trying to do?” Derek was snarling, and the look between both men was lethal. Eyes sparked. Lips wetted. Fingers twitched. Braeden held her breath, sure fists would start flying at any second. Derek made muted sounds of rage worthy of an aspiring ventriloquist. They were too close, puffed out chests a hair's-breadth apart. 

Stiles shrugged. “My Waffle House, my rules. Rule number one, pull that stick out of your ass, _Derek_.”

Derek took Stiles by the surprisingly broad shoulders and backed him into the coat rack. “Next time I’m here, you’re gonna make me my food the way I order it.”

As quickly as it started, the altercation was over. Derek backed out of the overcoats, and Stiles came stumbling after like two teenagers emerging from a closet after seven minutes in heaven. Derek made a beeline for the exit.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles yelled at Derek’s retreating back. “I'll show you sunny side up!”

The whole thing was made even more ridiculous by the merrily twinkling overhead bell as Derek slammed outside.

* * *

“Feeling up for trying Schwarma tonight?” Braeden asked when they pulled into the lot and parked next to Stiles’ run down blue Jeep.

“Not a chance,” Derek replied, practically backflipping out of the Camaro.

* * *

“Derek, NO!” she said.

_DEREK, YES_ he heard, and Derek, her Derek, the pinnacle of poise, yeeted himself over the counter, grabbing the yellow crossover uniform tie around Stiles’ neck.

* * *

“At least Stiles didn’t spike Derek’s drink with meth,” Erica shrugged. Today the two men were rolling around on the greasy tile floor. 

“Are you being ironic?” Braeden asked, taken aback by the seriousness of Erica’s tone.

“Waffle House is an irony-free zone,” Boyd informed her with a straight face. “I’m just thankful there’s no AR-15s or nudity today.”

“Yet,” Erica leered.

What the hell happened at Waffle House?!

  
  


* * *

“I’ll have an Angus patty melt, and a slice of Aunt Maggie’s Triple Chocolate pie, please,” Braeden ordered as chaos descended around her. “It’s like when I have food in front of me, everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.”

“That’s the magic of Waffle House,” Erica said sagely.

“It’s _something_ ,” Braeden replied. 

* * *

She was scattered, smothered, covered in food debris, collateral damage from Stiles and Derek’s ongoing war.

“Don’t worry, Hunny,” a friendly woman in the adjacent booth told her. “Throw a tide pod in with that shirt and the stains will come right out! Just don’t eat it like those crazy kids are doing these days.”

“Who in their right mind would eat a tide pod?” Braeden asked.

The answer was a serious side-eye. “Who in their right mind would keep returning to a restaurant to tussle with the cook?”

Touche.

* * *

Waffle House had a special Valentine’s Day candlelight dinner, which Braeden could have happily gone her whole life not knowing about or participating in. 

Erica sat them right next to the fancy new digital touchscreen jukebox. Stiles came out, fed the machine twenty dollars, and set it to play “I Touch Myself” by Divinyls two-hundred and forty times on repeat.

Braeden wasn’t sure if Derek touched _himself_ that night, but any guy who took her on a Valentine date to Waffle House and proceeded to fist-fight the cook certainly wasn’t going to be touching _her_.

* * *

  
  


Braeden parked down the road and walked to Waffle House, unsurprised to find Derek’s car in the parking lot. She’d quit going with him two weeks ago. To so many hungry, lost, and seriously hammered people, Waffle House’s warm yellow glow was a beacon of salvation. For Braeden, who watched from the peaceful vantage point of the parking lot as her boyfriend grappled the skinny cook into a headlock and proceeded to give him a vicious noogie, it would forever be a reminder that Derek was the perfect guy for her, except when it came to Stiles. Once upon a time, Braeden appreciated the fact that women everywhere were always looking at her man. He turned heads, but none of them ever seemed to turn his. Except at Waffle House, and it wasn’t a woman.

  
  


Derek walked out of the restaurant twenty minutes later to find her sitting on the hood of his black Camaro. “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” he asked, monotone. She wondered at Drek’s equanimity, which has always seemed so inviting to her before. Maybe Braeden just didn’t inspire passion in Derek, the way Stiles obviously did. 

She nodded.

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”

She shook her head. “Not unless you can tell me what this is really about. Not unless you can tell me who you are. Because this person isn’t the Derek I thought I knew.”

Lately, she’d been thinking a lot about a proverb her mother used to recite when she was younger. _Briseann an dúchais trí shúile an chait._ _The true nature of someone’s character is revealed through their eyes._ Derek’s head swiveled between Braeden and the view through the glass window, where Erica was helping Stiles off the floor, and Boyd was mopping up spilled chocolate milk, and several patrons were still surreptitiously filming the whole ordeal on their cellphones. Derek’s eyes followed Stiles like a wolf stalking prey. “Shit, I—”

“Derek,” she said, sliding down the hood and coming to stand before him, “you were an amazing boyfriend and a great guy.” Braeden sighed. “Except at Waffle House.” 

Derek shoved his fists into the front pockets of his too-tight jeans, scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the brick facade of the restaurant. “Yeah,” he relented. “I’m really sorry.”

“Me too, Derek.” She gently patted his stubbled cheek. “Good luck with-” she gestured toward the golden fluorescent lights, the black and yellow signage, at Stiles standing stock still and Bambi-eyed behind the counter, holding a chunk of frozen bacon to the top of his head- “whatever the hell this is. I’ll see you around.”

She waved good-bye to Stiles through the window, who raised a hesitant hand back to her, and walked out of the parking lot.

Roughly a year and a half later, Braeden thumbed through a used newspaper while she waited at her local coffee shop for the barista to call her name. She flipped from business to sports, passing the society section on her way, when a pithy headline caught her attention. 

_Waffle Brawls lead to Wedding Bells._

Huh. So _that’s_ what all the fighting was really about.

Underneath the catchy title was a byline: “Groom learned sixteen new ways to cook eggs during fearsome flirtation.”

“Caramel Macchiato for Braeden!” 

Braeden tossed the paper onto the tabletop, leaving it open to Stiles and Derek’s wedding announcement, and left the coffee shop with a laugh on her lips. 

You couldn’t make this shit up. Except at Waffle House.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dori my crack enabler.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope this story made you laugh.


End file.
